Corroded
by Doesn'tMeanMuch
Summary: It doesn't get any easier with each day, in fact, it just gets harder to believe. Ellie UPDATE 11.18
1. Chapter 1

An idea, that popped into my head, and that I've put up for all of you to read and REVIEW. I cannot stress that last part enough. I can't know if what I'm doing is working if I am not given any feedback. I own nothing...check out my other fics: _Begin to Hope_,_ Dope Sick_,and_ Trying_. Leave a review for them too if you get a chance, even if you aren't into what I wrote, I'm glad to hear anything.

Anyways I hope you enjoy. I've been working on this for a while, and I am really starting to like it.

More soon.

XXXXXX

This was never supposed to happen.

That's all I can think as I sit propped against the wall, staring at an empty baby cradle. I can remember the second I realized that I was pregnant. That little blue plus sign was scariest fucking thing I'd ever seen in my eighteen years of life. One night of careless, senseless sex and now, I'd closed the book on my whole life. Nothing can prepare you for that kind of shock.

Eventually, I warmed up to the idea. The baby was due right after my nineteenth birthday. Everything was going smoothly, and I was looking forward to being the mom I always wanted.

I like to think that I could be a good mother. I like to think that I could do most things right, and not let it overwhelm me. My kids wouldn't have to deal with parents like the ones I'd had: a military father who'd dedicated himself more to his career than his family, and an alcoholic mother who spent years passed out on the sofa. I'd convinced myself that my kids would have at least a mom who loved and protected them, especially if they couldn't have a dad.

I never told Craig. I meant to, but every time I got up enough nerve to pick up the phone and dial him, I got his answering machine, and he never returned the call. I couldn't bring myself to leave a message. I thought he deserved to hear it in person. When I was about four months into it all, the number was disconnected, and I couldn't have called him if I wanted to. So, I let him fade away, figuring when he took time away from being a rock star to look me up, he would see that he'd missed his chance to be a father.

She was born a week early, on my birthday, and my Annie, Anne Marie Manning, was the most perfect gift I could have gotten. Every morning spent bowed over the toilet, every night spent with an aching back and throbbing feet, and every hour of mind-numbing labor was instantly redeemed at the sight of one beautiful little girl.

She was mine, my flesh and blood. I knew instantly that Annie was my heart.

Someone's home and my daydream is shattered. It sounds like it could be Alex because of the heavy, pounding footsteps. I don't even know what time it is. My head is still spinning. The long, long silence I'd been enveloped in is forever destroyed when a voice cuts across the apartment.

"Hello?"

It is Alex. I don't want her to find me; what I really want is to slip through the cracks in the wall and never be seen again.

"Ellie?"

My voice doesn't want to work. I can't answer, but she knows I should be here. My car is still parked where I always park it, and my keys and cell phone are probably on the counter. Alex will look for me; I know it. She would never let an unusual situation just be. I think not knowing what's going on makes her nervous. She calls my name again, and I can tell she's getting closer.

"Ellie?"

A second later, my door swings slowly open, and Alex's pokes her head in. Immediately, I see her face fall. She knows something's not right.

"Ell, what are you doing on the floor?" She says. Her face scrunches in confusion, and she steps inside the room. I can see the instant she realizes that I have been crying. It's written all over her face. She looks at the empty bassinet, and back at me. For a second, she's confused, but I guess the expression on my face says it all. Alex falls down next to me, and leans her back into the wall.

"Oh God Ellie," she sighs. Her voice cracks. She knows it has to be something really awful.

That's one thing I love about Alex. For a girl who seems like such a heartless bully, she's remarkably intuitive. You don't ever have to say anything; she just knows. She doesn't ask or even say anything at all, but for my own unclear reasons, I hear the words tumble out of my mouth.

"She was blue. I woke up this morning and went to get her out of the crib, but she was just blue Alex," I croaked. Tears are welling up in my eyes for the millionth time today. Alex's arm shrug around me, and next thing I know, I'm soaking her shoulder with fat tears, and it hurts. It actually, physically hurts me when I think about it.

She was my daughter, my baby girl. I will never get to see my baby laugh, or talk or even cry, ever again. She's gone forever.

My Annie is dead

I'm crying so hard I can barely breathe, but it doesn't worry me, because I don't want to ever take another breath. It hurts too much.

Alex doesn't let go, and I have to love her for it. I know that Alex isn't even usually a hugger or even at all one for physical contact, but she just lets me cry a mess all over her shirt. We are silent, except for my crying, for the longest time until she mumbles something and I hear her sniffle. When I pull away and look up, she's crying too.

Her tears are quieter, and more dignified than mine, but are nonetheless there. Neither of us moves away from the wall. Alex is staring at the empty bassinet, and I can tell her heart is breaking too.

I never said anything about it, but I was going to make her Annie's godmother. In the brief nine weeks we'd all had with her, Alex had especially taken to my little girl. I could tell she would've spoiled that baby rotten if she'd gotten the chance.

"The said it was probably SIDS," I hear myself whisper. Once again, the words escape my mouth without thought. Alex looks at me, surprised that I spoke again.

"Isn't that the thing you can't prevent?" She asks. I shrug, because I can't really remember what they said; most of the hours spent at the hospital are all still blurry to me.

I will never tell her about the battering of questions doctors hit me with at the hospital. Did I smoke, drink, or do drugs? Were there blankets or stuffed animals in the crib? Did I have thoughts of hurting my baby? Was I prone to violence? That was a traumatic experience in itself, and every answer I gave seemed like it wasn't good enough to them. To everyone I talked to, it seemed like they thought it must've been my fault. I will never tell her that they have a social worker on me, trying to figure out what I might've had done wrong, and how I might have been responsible for the death of my own baby.

For all I know it could've been my fault. I could be a murderer.

My chest tightens and I can't breathe deep enough to feel the air in my lungs. I feel like a murderer. God, I probably did do something wrong. I'm only nineteen; I shouldn't have been a mother. I'm not old enough, not smart enough, and I had no place in thinking I could have ever done this right. This is my fault. I got what I deserved.

I killed my own child.

The whole room is collapsing in around me. It's becoming unbearably hot, and my breaths are getting rapid. I know either I am about to have some kind of mental breakdown, or I am having a panic attack. Either one is no good by my standards. I look up and see Alex's mouth moving, but I don't know what she's saying. My ears are pounding with the dull roar of my pulse.

Suddenly, I feel arms wrap around my middle, and Alex is holding onto me as if she's holding on for her life, and she's speaking right into my ear.

"You have to breathe, it's ok, this is all in your head," she says. I nod blankly, trying to pull back into reality. She just keeps talking to me, and I tune in and out, sometimes hearing her say her same reassurances, and sometimes only hearing my heart racing. I am going crazy. I can feel it. My brain just keeps spitting that awful word in my face: Murderer.

I am a murderer.

"It's all in your head," she says again. "You are fine, and you are safe. You are not crazy; this is all in your head. This is just a panic attack, you will be fine."

My eyes are squeezed shut, and in my head, I hear shouting. Someone is screaming and nearing hysterics. I don't think it's me, but it has to be someone. I open my eyes, and feel that my mouth is shut. Alex is still right in front of me. My lungs are loosening, and the roar in my ears is dying down, but I still feel crazy.

"Are you ok?" she asks. I nod, for her sake. It's probably not at all comfortable to have a nutcase freaking out right in front of you. She pulls away finally.

"I'll be right back," she says, and leaves me sitting on the floor alone again. I force myself to keep breathing, but it's remarkably harder than I expected.

When Alex leaves, I figure out where that yelling came from. She and Paige are in what sounds like the kitchen, arguing. Paige is the hysterical screaming voice from earlier. Apparently, with my eyes shut and me going mental I missed a blow up from the Queen Bee.

Alex thinks if she whispers, that no one will be able to hear her fights with Paige, but it's a futile effort on more than one level. First of all, Alex has one of those whispers that the whole world can hear. It's not very subtle, and even if she could speak quietly enough to conceal her own words, Paige screams loud enough that it doesn't matter. This is a small apartment, and not a single word of their fight escapes me.

"What were you and Nash doing in there Lexi?" Paige is screaming. She is talking rapid fire, and Alex is trying to get Paige to be quiet enough to let her have a word.

"I don't want to be quiet Alex. I can't believe you," the blonde bellows.

"Jesus Christ Paige, you obviously don't understand," Alex spits back.

"I'm not stupid. I walked in on you and Ellie didn't I? Don't you dare call me stupid," Paige yells back. I wince, feeling the bitterness in her words. Alex sighs so loud that it's almost more of a growl.

"You're not stupid and I never said that," Alex defends, "But you don't get it." Paige's footsteps are so loud; I know that she's pacing back and forth.

"I get it, I totally get it hun. If you want someone else, fine by me, go for it," she says. Alex keeps trying to force her words in, but Paige isn't giving her an inch to speak in. "I guess if I'm not enough then-"

"Fucking hell Paige, her baby died this morning! Annie's gone," Alex finally yells. Her voice drops into a fierce whisper now that she's gotten her girlfriend's attention and she doesn't need to yell. I suspect she doesn't want me to hear, but like I said, this is a small apartment, and Alex's voice isn't exactly gentle. "Ellie was having a fucking panic attack."

The whole apartment is dead silent, and I can hear Paige's mind blow. It shattered into a million tiny little pieces all over the floor, just as my heart did.

"What?" Paige croaks. Her voice is so much smaller and gentler. Alex sighs loudly again.

"The baby's gone. It was SIMS or SIBS or something," Alex says, frustration evident in her voice. The part of me that knows Alex suspects that this annoyance in her voice is a cover-up to avoid revealing how much it really affected her.

"Sudden infant death syndrome," Paige murmurs. I can only figure that Alex nodded, because I don't hear her answer.

"Oh my god," Paige whispers. "Oh god, the poor girl." There is a sharp pang in my chest when she says that. I don't know why that specific statement of hers hurt. All I know is that I feel like I am going to freak again.

But I force myself to keep breathing. This is all my head being unable to process what has happened. I need to sleep or something.

I need to stop thinking for today.


	2. Chapter 2

This one feels slow, but it's important. If it drags, tell me. I tried to break it up, but something feels off.

Anyways, give me your thoughts. Thanks for reading.

XXXXXX

They are all walking on eggshells around me. I have the sinking suspicion that all of my friends are convinced I am going to kill myself.

Though I can't blame them. I do not have a very good track record when it comes to dealing with my issues. I have felt the compulsion to slash my arms open probably a million times since yesterday, but so far, I haven't acted on it.

I haven't really acted on anything. Alex is dealing with the funeral home for me. Marco talked to my boss, and they're giving me as much time as I need to get back to work. I, meanwhile, have sat in my room, or on the couch, trying to keep myself breathing.

That pretty much takes up most of my time.

It's four-thirty on a Saturday, so anytime in the next few hours, a social worker is going to come and interview all of us. It's a standard procedure they said. This is supposedly, what they always do when a baby dies. So everyone had kept their schedules free and hole up in our tiny apartment for the weekend.

"Ellie are you hungry?"

I look up from my curled up place in bed, and Marco's hopeful self has appeared up by the door. I suspect he knows I haven't bothered to eat, but I shake my head anyways. I'm not hungry.

"Do you at least want to come out and sit with everybody?" he asks, his face falls a little bit. I don't want him to feel bad, so I concede, and pull my exhausted body from bed. He smiles, and waits to take hold of my hand. I manage a sorry excuse of a grin, but I hope he can tell I'm trying. I slip my fingers into his, and we walk out, back into the real world.

Everyone is out in the living room watching TV. Paige and Alex are sprawled across each other on the sofa, and Dylan is waiting expectantly for his boyfriend to join him on the floor near the television set. Alex gives Paige a not so subtle nudge to move her feet and make space for me on the couch. The ugly recliner that had once graced this living room broke a week or two ago, so we are at a real shortage for places to sit.

"Ellie you can sit right here," Paige says. She pats at the couch and gives me an optimistic grin. This whole room seems excessively cheerful. I feel like a black smudge in an otherwise neon painting, but I still sit down. I want them all to know that I am making the effort to at least appear normal.

"Thanks," I reply, sitting down on the sofa and sinking in the back. I don't recognize the show on TV. It's has something to do with food and places around the world, but I can't really get a grasp on it. It's bland TV, but non-controversial. That's probably why it was chosen. Food can't usually start a disagreement in this house where almost anything else can. So, most of our meager selection of TV channels is off limits if the whole household is watching together.

However, cooking has made it onto the approved list and I can't say I'm happy about it. Whatever this thing that they eat in South America is, it's making my empty stomach churn. There's sheep meat involved, and some combination of herbs that just doesn't look appetizing.

"This sucks," Alex spits. "Somebody please change the channel." Dylan and Paige sigh in unison, and Marco moves to oblige with Alex's request.

"Hun, it's just food. It's not that bad," Paige grumbles at her girlfriend. "There's nothing else to watch." Alex smirks and rolls her eyes just as Marco gags. They're showing sheep intestines on the TV, and talking about how it's a delicacy in whatever country. It's making me want to hurl, but I can't convince my vocal cords to voice the opinion. Paige's face pales at the sight of the bloody organs.

"Never mind," Paige says grimly. "A channel change sounds good." Marco covers his eyes and blindly presses the channel up button. He scrolls through until settling on a countdown of the funniest movies of all time. It seemed to satisfy the rest of the room.

After five or ten minutes, I realized that this was no different from what I'd been doing all day. Only now, since I was in a room with other people, not talking and staring into space, it was considered being social.

We got to number fifty-two, _"Caddyshack"_, before there was a knock on the door. The room fell silent, and even though I was staring at my hands, I knew that they were all looking at me. Everyone was about to gauge their actions off of whatever I did first, and the problem was, I didn't know what to do. I froze.

Luckily, Alex wasn't going to wait for me, so she pulls away from her spot on the couch and heads toward the door.

"I got it," she calls behind her. My eyes shut. I don't want any of those people to ask me anymore of their stupid fucking questions. I'm afraid that I'll answer them wrong. I'm afraid I'll know for sure what I have been dreading.

They're going to tell me that it's all my fault.

Alex trudges back into the room with a middle-aged, overweight, man in tow. He's got a clipboard in his hands, and for some reason that bothers me. I can't remember ever meeting him before, but by the way he smiles at me, I assume he's seen me. He must have been at the hospital, because I can't place any single one of those people's faces anymore.

"Well, that's my girlfriend Paige, her brother Dylan and his boyfriend Marco, and I guess you already know Ellie," Alex says, pointing around the room. She sounds tense, and I feel bad that I am putting all of them through this. Who wants to spend their Saturday stuck in their apartment getting interrogated by social services?

"Hello everyone, my name is Hector," he says, giving the room a smile and a wave. Dylan stands and shakes the man's hand, and Marco follows suit. Paige gives a simple wave back, and I keep staring into my hands. I really, really want to go back to bed now.

"Ellie, if I could have a word with you first," Hector says. I look up and give him a half-ass, forced smile. He can probably tell how fake it is, but I don't care. I want this man to leave.

"Sure," I croak. This is it Nash. Brace yourself. I am about to hear all of what I've been expecting, I can tell by the look on his face. I lead him to my room, knowing it's the best privacy we can get in this tiny apartment.

"How are you doing?" He asks as I shut the door. My arms cross over my chest and I can feel the air stuck in my lungs as I try to force some kind of reply out.

"Ok," I all but stutter it. His eyebrows raise, and he nods.

"Take it one day at a time," Hector says, trying to sound compassionate. His words hit me in a more harried way. Keeping me optimistic is not his job, and he doesn't intend on making it so anytime soon. He sighs and looks around to find a place to sit. "I just have a few things to talk with you about."

I motion for my bed, and collapse onto it. He opts to stand instead, and analyzes the room. His eyes rest on the bassinet.

"Was the baby in this cradle?" He asks. I only nod. Words aren't coming easy. He moves to inspect it closer. Those pudgy man hands press against the delicate mattress, and I hear him hum in thought.

"I'm going to be frank," He sighs, turning his face back towards me. It amazes me how this man's neck has disappeared to the point where his face looks like a perfect circle place on top of his shoulders. I can feel this image burning into my brain, and I know whatever he says will be engrained in my mind forever. I don't want to hear him be frank.

"The autopsy reports came back, and she died from lack of oxygen, hypoxia," he says. There is some amount of sympathy in his voice, but it's also laced with something more sinister. "Did you let the baby sleep on her stomach?"

Every time he says "the baby" I feel my stomach fall. She had a name, I want to say. She was my baby, my little daughter, not just the "the baby." She was my Annie. My voice is caught somewhere in my throat, and never escapes from my mouth. I can't even answer his question. He probably thinks I didn't hear him, because he asks again.

This time he continues on to say that babies who sleep on their stomachs have a higher instance of "crib-death." I can hear the remaining pieces of my shattered heart fall from my body, and scatter across the floor.

I was fucking right. It really was my fault.

The answer I give will be the wrong one, but it will be the truth. I now know what they say, because Hector has just informed me that virtually all the experts say to let our baby sleep on their back until they can roll over on their own. I remember knowing that, but I also remember, she was screaming in her cradle that night, and she always slept better if I laid her on her chest. I hadn't slept in over twenty four hours. Annie already cried through the whole night before, and I was exhausted. It was too easy to just let it slip that night.

"I know this is hard," he says, "I promise I will be quick. I just need you to answer to the best of your ability." I swallow, trying to clear a path so my voice can break free.

"I don't remember if I did that night," I lie. Instantly I feel guilty. If I'm going to say anything at all, what's the point in not at least saying what I really know?

"Annie was crying that night, and she was calmer if I put her on her stomach," I sigh, trying to redeem myself. "But I didn't think about…I didn't remember that it could…" I don't want to finish. My whole body is shaking and I can't will it to stop. He writes on his little clipboard, and looks back up. His face flashes with empathy and he starts saying more, but very few of his words make it to my ears, because my brain is too busy screaming at me.

It's all my fault. It's all my fault. It's all my fault.

Murderer.

The rush of emotions is so strong, that I can't pinpoint how I feel, but when can I ever? The only real feeling is the pounding in my chest. It's as if something is slamming a sledge hammer, trying to break free from the prison of my ribcage. I know it can't be my heart; I have no heart. Maybe it's the beast inside of me, because I am killer.

Murderer.

As Hector speaks, part of my knows how when to nod, and when to respond, but absolutely nothing he is saying makes any sense. My answers must be good enough, because soon, I am ushering the man out of my room so he can speak to someone else. I fall into the soft of my mattress, hoping it will swallow me so I can't hurt anyone more. My eyes shut, and are instantly assaulted by the image of my cold, blue baby.

She's really dead because of me, and I don't think I can live with that.


	3. Chapter 3

Ok, I have the update for you. This is a long one, and a good one I hope. I have to say, it was a pretty intense chapter to write. I hope it goes across as intended.

Even though I have pretty much resigned myself to the fact that I will never get a ton of reviews for anything, and I don't really know why, I would still like you guys to tell me what you think. The only way you get what you want to read is if you tell me what you want to read.

Enjoy.

XXXXXX

No matter how much I sleep, I am still tired.

That's a disturbing fact, since I have spent more hours of the day asleep than not. Every occasionally, someone will barge through the door, and attempt to drag me away from here. It is probably a good idea.

Just an hour ago, Marco was in here, trying to pry conversation from my mouth. He's decided that talking will help me, and I shouldn't keep my thoughts inside. He says that he can see it, slowly killing me.

When the boy is right, he's right.

I like it better when Alex comes in. She doesn't talk about anything serious, or try to get me to spill my guts. There is, of course, the gigantic pink elephant in the room, but both of us are skilled at ignoring it. We just kind of co-exist quietly, and that's more comforting than any amount of conversation could be at this point.

At the moment, my head is underneath the pillow, as I try a half-hearted attempt at smothering myself. It's taking too much effort to keep reminding myself to breathe, and I don't want to bother with it, but all this is really amounting to is making my face sticky with sweat.

I jump half a mile in the air when I submit and retrieve fresh air. I am no longer alone. Paige, of all people, is standing two feet away from my face, arms crossed, and waiting expectantly.

"Hey Ellie," she says. Her tone is hushed, as if she's afraid I'm going to break in two from her speaking at a normal volume. "I was wondering if you wanted to come with me to pick Alex up at Degrassi. Her car broke down, and I'm going to be stuck in traffic getting down there anyways, so maybe you'd like to come along?"

She sounds hopeful, and I feel dirty for accepting her unusual kind gesture. Under normal circumstances, Paige probably would rather go it alone for an hour in traffic. She is only offering because she feels sorry, sad, or required to do so. I can't imagine how enjoyable it would be to sit, confined in a car, with me for a solid hour. I'm not an idiot; I know that I've been catatonic lately.

That, to me, doesn't sound like Paige's carpool buddy material.

Still, I do accept. I can only assume it's out of my own twisted sort of obligation. All my roommates have practically been tiptoeing around here. I might as well take her up on her act of commiseration. At the very least, it would make her feel better.

I am ready to go in minutes. I don't look good, and it shows, but I don't have anyone to impress. Paige seems content enough that I've left my room.

She is so strangely upbeat, that I don't really know how to act. On a good day, I don't think I could keep up with the Paige Michalchuk happy train. We sit, in traffic, and she buzzes on and on about "so-and-so" this, and "Oh my god" that, and "How could he/she?" I can barely catch every other word out of her mouth, because my ears just aren't quick enough. At least it gives me something to focus on, because if you're trying to understand what Paige is saying, your mind can't really be on anything else.

I think she must do this when she's uncomfortable.

During the whole car ride, I could count the number of words I actually spoke on one hand. By the time I can see Alex sitting on the curb in front of the school, Paige's story doesn't make any sense anymore. It was something about Spinner and a tutu.

"Hey," Alex sighs, jumping into the back seat. Paige turns around, and her smile is disarmed by an infamously intense Alex-glare.

"I, uh, have something that has to be done today before we go home, if you don't mind," Alex stammers as we pull away from the school, eyes still burning a hole into the back of Paige's head. As she starts giving Paige a series of curt directions, I suddenly realize that I should not have come along on this ride.

We are on our way to the funeral home.

"Stay in the car," Alex all but demands as she gets out. I shut my eyes. I don't even want to look at the building on my right, because I already know what's in there. I know that in less than twenty-four hours, I will be back here, and it will hurt even more then. With zero warning, the dull ache in my chest is back at full force. I hadn't even noticed that it was gone.

"I'm so sorry, I forgot she had to go here today," Paige stutters. "This is my mistake, I didn't mean to. I can't even believe that I did this." I nod, mostly trying to get her to shut up, because I can't hear myself breathing, and it's hard to tell if there is any air in my lungs. There's a giant knot forming in my throat, and it seems too big to allow any oxygen past.

By some grace of god, I force myself to swallow, and can feel my chest swell with air, and I open my eyes. Paige looks worried, and is unusually silent.

"Are you going to be ok?" she finally asks. I nod, reluctant to test my voice, because it's highly likely that it will betray me. It's not going to be ok.

By the time Alex is back in the car and we're back on the road, Paige is trying to fill the tension-charged environment with her words. I am now completely convinced that talking is her coping mechanism, because what she's saying is so bizarre. She must be able to remember every event in her life, because now Paige is full of "remember when?" and "this one time" stories.

It's actually strangely comforting to me, but right now, I'd bet Alex wouldn't agree.

She's fuming in the back seat, eyes still grilling into Paige's head. I can almost feel her reaching her boiling point. I doubt that Alex's irritability has escaped Paige, because she is talking more and more, which in turn brings Alex's stress level to new heights.

This whole situation is freaking a-bomb tumbling its way down to earth, and I can't help but to feel responsible. After all, if I hadn't killed my baby, then this would never have happened.

It seems like Paige's voice is getting increasingly shrill, and incredibly fast. She's starting to sound less like a human, and more like a steaming teakettle.

"Oh my god! What the fuck are you talking about?" Alex finally blows. "I swear to God you don't make any fucking sense." Paige stops mid-word, and lets out an incensed huff.

"Look Alex, you don't have to freak out. I know I screwed up ok?" she says, her voice is strained, and I feel like I am intruding on what should be a private argument.

"Yeah, you did," Alex mutters. "But let's talk about it later."

"God, it's always later with you," Paige mumbles. Alex scoffs, and I cringe, knowing those were, in all sense, fighting words.

"Well fuck Paige, I'm sorry I don't want to argue about all this crap in front of Ellie, who maybe has enough shit on her plate," Alex jeers. After a half a seconds pause, she speaks again.

"Don't listen to me Nash," she practically spits at me. I feel myself wince at the hurt look in Paige's eyes. This whole thing has stemmed from an honest mistake, and attempt to save _me_ some heartache. I clear my throat and proceed to give my two cents, because right now I don't think I can handle being the catalyst in a clash between two people who love each other.

"Look, I'm fine, ok? You don't have to protect me from anything; I'm an adult. I can handle myself, and I am fine. Stopping there didn't bother me at all. So you guys don't have to fight, ok?" I say.

The confused sideways glance Paige is throwing me doesn't take me by any amount of surprise, because both of us, and probably Alex, know that I am lying through my teeth. This whole trip killed me, but that isn't the point of my little speech. I want the two of them to make up or at least stop clawing at each other's throats.

"Ok?" I say again, waiting for a response.

"Ok," Paige mumbles. I turn around to look Alex in the face, waiting for her to give me some kind of answer. She stares at me, seeming to look past my face, straight into my brain and pick through my thoughts. Silently I plead that she doesn't see through my lies and take this any further.

She blinks away and gives me a short nod before staring out the window, and I feel myself crumple with relief.

What I didn't count on was that the rest of the car ride home would be so devastatingly quiet. No one spoke another word out loud for the rest of the trip, and that made things unbelievable tense. Of course, traffic was ten times worse going home, so what could have been a twenty-minute drive became an hour and a half of conflicted silence.

Silence, in itself, can be unnerving, but when your mind won't stop racing with thoughts you would rather not think, it's downright depressing.

Being out of that car felt like taking the first deep breath after a race to see who can touch the bottom of a swimming pool first. Neither Alex or Paige makes any motions to follow me, so I go it alone up the front walkway, hearing them already starting a loud, dramatic argument. A stab of guilt pangs with the already tender ache in my chest.

They really shouldn't be fighting.

The house is buzzing with activity. Marco and Dylan are cooking up some kind of storm in the kitchen. I can only assume they've been watching that show on the Food Network with those two gay guys, because Marco says they "inspire him to make beautiful food".

Sometimes I have to wonder how I ever thought that boy was straight.

"Hey Ellie," he beams, turning away from the stove. Dylan gives me a short wave, but has to give his attention back to the bubbling concoction in front of him. Marco looks over my shoulder and frowns. "Where are Alex and Paige?"

I try to hold that cringe in, and mumble something about "they'll be right in," and try to walk down the hallway, but before I can even take a step, Marco has a hold on my arm.

It catches me by total surprise, and my expression must mirror that, because he looks slightly embarrassed. He chews at his lip for a second, looking worried, and then smiles.

"I, uh, I hope your hungry, because me and Dylan are making a feast," he says.

That's not what he wanted to say. He's concerned, it's evident on every inch of his face, and he has the right to be. I pull his hand off my arm, give him a quick, bogus grin, and try to set his mind at ease.

"Yeah, ok, I just want to go have a shower first," I say, gesturing down at my unruly self. "I don't exactly look that attractive right now." Instantly, I realize that I have won this battle. He looks comforted because, for once, I sound normal

"Yeah, ok," He says through an easy smile. "Don't worry about this; we won't be done for, like, forty-five minutes; so take as long as you want." I flash him another pleasing smile, knowing that he shouldn't have resigned himself that quickly and wishing I had the nerve to stay here and talk to him instead of walking away to do what I am about to do.

I stop quickly in my room and take all my necessary things, then lock myself in the bathroom, feeling a rise of hope in my chest for the first time in three days. I want this to work.

No, I need this to work.

I start the shower, but make no motion to undress and get inside. This, I realize, is the mark of someone who is truly experienced at hiding their majorly fucked up issues. I sit on the floor, feeling the steamy air muddle in my lungs, and pull the lustrous razorblade from my pocket. I almost laugh when I notice how carefully I'm handling it. It's like I don't want to accidentally cut myself.

What a twisted fucking way my brain works.

Under the guise of the shower, I have more than enough time to take care of business. My hands are shaking as I press the length of the blade against my skin, with a little flick of the wrist, and a sharp burn, blood is beading in a thin red line. All I can think as I dig deeper is that no one hands should be this practiced at tearing through flesh. I hold my breath, waiting for that release; waiting for my thoughts to disappear.

It never comes. Not with two or four, or even five aching slices across the inside of my arm can bring me what I want. The relief never comes.

I watch the blood bead and spill over, and feel tears well in my eyes. This was supposed to help, and now all I've done is made an agonizing mess of myself.

This is so screwed up.

The tears break away, and trail down my face. I gasp for air, feeling the heavy sobs building in my chest. God it hurts. Every level pain I've ever felt in my life feels like a god damned cakewalk compared to this, this hollow feeling.

Time and tears passed, and I eventually had to pick myself up off the floor. The blood had caked on my wrist, smeared on the tile, and soaked into my sweats. The air was unbearably humid from the ever-running hot water, and I couldn't stay in here forever. Marco would at least get suspicious. The last thing I need is someone to bust in here and find me like this.

So I wipe the blood off the floor, strip down, and jump into the now lukewarm shower. I hustle through the motions, attempting some amount of normalcy, when all I really want to do is drown myself. After only five minutes, I don't think I can stand being under the water anymore, so I get out.

I get dressed, flinching at my expert choice of shirt: the baseball tee. The three quarter lengths sleeves really make my job ten times easier. Old scars can show, like some kind of twisted badge of honor, while the new, well-place lines, are hidden from view. It'll give everyone some sense of faith in me, even if they shouldn't.

It's disgusting how well I have myself trained.

I, apparently, have impeccable timing. At least, that's what Dylan informs me as I exit the bathroom. The are just now throwing food onto plates and sitting down in front of the television. He places a plate heaped with so much food in my hands, that the sight of it almost makes me gag. My stomach twists itself into knots, and I don't think I can bear to eat.

I sit on the floor, leaning against the couch at Marco's feet, and pick at the food, trying my best to look like it's the best meal I've ever had. We are all quiet, as there really isn't that much to say. The TV blares in the background, and I don't care what's on, as long as there is some sort of noise.

"Should I go check on Paige and Alex?" Dylan asks. I blink a few times, trying to comprehend the question. Marco, fortunately, thinks a lot faster than me.

"I don't know, they've probably killed each other by now," he mutters between bites of lasagna. "And if they haven't, they might just kill you for interrupting the fight." Dylan sighs knowingly, and then brightens with an idea.

"You go Marco," he says, pushing his boyfriend. "You are practically immune to an Alex and Paige fight." Marco contemplates it silently and reluctantly agrees.

"But if I don't come back, and Alex kills me," He warns. "It's your funeral."

The hidden insult in those words does not escape any of us.

Marco's face plummets, devastated at the slip up. He quickly tries to make it right.

"Ell, I didn't mean to-"

"Its fine," I interrupt. "Don't worry about it. You didn't mean anything." I don't want him to say anything more, because I'm afraid I might start to cry.

He's smart enough to walk away, down the hallway. Dylan and I both listen as he tries to stir the two missing girls from their quiet argument.

"Hey guys are you hungry?" He says, knocking on the door.

No answer.

"Alex? Paige?" he says again.

No answer. Maybe they really did kill each other.

He finally opens the door, and in a whirlwind second, three voices sound at once.

There's a loud, Paige-like squeal, a decidedly Alex yell of "Fucking A!", and a surprised Marco's "Oh my god!" The door slams shut, and Marco yells through it.

"I'm sorry."

He returns, red-faced, and eyes-covered. I don't exactly know how to react. Dylan's face is stuck somewhere between a laugh and a look of shock. Marco takes his hand off his face, and gives his stunned commentary.

"They definitely aren't fighting anymore, and next time, you go, because now, I can safely say that I have seen too much."

XXXXXX


	4. Chapter 4

Whoa, sorry about the wait. This one took forever. I promise the next chapter won't take so long.

Well, I'll try. I really can't promise you much of anything except that I'll try.

Read, review, and enjoy my friends.

XXXXXX

I watched the sun rise this morning.

I physically sat on the counter in front of the kitchen window and watched as the sun went up, not to mention the three or four hours before and the two after that two minute sunrise. Sleep wasn't an option; my brain wouldn't let it be.

It's really no big thing. The sun rises the same every morning and sets the same every night, regardless of how significant of a day it is. No matter how much you don't want that day to happen, it always does, because the world doesn't stop for anyone.

"Looks like you've been up for a while."

Those Michalchuk kids sure have a way of sneaking up on a girl. Dylan's standing in the door way, looking at me in mild curiosity. I give him a shadow of a smile.

"Yeah, long enough I guess," I shrug. He nods knowingly.

"Well, enjoy the silence while it lasts. I know Marco's awake, and I think I might have heard Paige in the bathroom already," he says, leaning against the counter a few feet away from me.

"Do you always get up early, or is it just today?" I ask. Dylan is a mystery to me, which is weird, considering how Marco and I have been close for a long time. But he's really just the blonde gay guy who always happens to be in the room.

"Nah, I like the morning. It's refreshing to me; peaceful," he answers, leaning back in his chair. Both of us are quiet, because we don't know each other well enough for conversation.

"I think I'll make some coffee. Do you want any?" He says with a yawn, standing up.

"Sure," I reply, standing as well. The kitchen suddenly seems too awkward to be in. "I'm just going to go start getting ready."

I didn't have to say what I was getting ready for. He just nodded with that same look of understanding from earlier.

"Ok, the coffee will probably be ready when you are."

"Not if Alex gets in here first," I joke, trying to be sociable. He chuckles, probably out of courtesy.

"I'll make sure there's some left for you, even if it means cutting off the Queen of Mean when she's caffeine deprived," he quips back. With an obligatory laugh and smile, I excuse myself from the room.

One thing about being a former goth is that, at least in my case, you never really lose you're love of black. So, there's plenty in your wardrobe to choose from when the need arises, and it should make life a little bit simpler on today, a day I would like to avoid.

Unfortunately for me, things are anything but easy and simple today, clothing included. All I can manage to do is stare at the closed drawers of my dresser. It seems too daunting of a task to undertake. But I can't leave the house in sweats today. I have to look remotely nice. After a few long minutes, I finally convince myself to pull the drawer open and at least try to pick something.

Nothing looks at all right, and I eventually just end up pissed to all hell at the piles of clothes around me. The bathroom door opens up, and I jump at the chance to get away from this mess.

Marco shoots me a sideways look as I leave my room, swearing at my clothes. I am not in the mood to explain myself, so I just slip past him and into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

I make the water so hot, it's almost unbearable. The burn is good though; it takes away some of that underlying numbness. I almost don't want to leave the shower, except I know that I have to. Someone else is probably already waiting for their turn. So I throw back on the ratty t-shirt and sweats I'd been wearing before, brush my teeth, and leave the bathroom, dreading the thought of more rooting through my clothes, but arrive to find my bedroom door is shut.

"No, no that's all wrong Marco." Even muffled through the door, I can tell it's definitely Paige.

"Paige, we're not going to a Milan fashion show here, it's a funeral." There was Marco. This is officially strange. Last time I checked, there was nothing in my room for either of them to want to borrow.

"Well she should still get to look good," Paige defended, and suddenly it clicked. They were picking clothes for me. I didn't even bother to open the door, and just decided to let them deal with it. Less stress for me.

The smell of coffee beckons me back to the kitchen. Alex is sitting at the table, sipping greedily at her own mug. She looks up and gives me a small, tired smile.

"Hey."

"Hey," I sigh back, pulling a mug from the cupboard, looking to the coffeepot and seeing that it is bone-dry. With a minorly annoyed huff, and chuck the pot back into the machine. "That's what I get for lagging, I guess."

Alex shakes her head with a mouthful of coffee, and gives me the "one second" gesture. She points at the wall of cupboards and with a hasty swallow, turns me in the right direction.

"Look in the middle shelf, second cupboard over, where we keep all the bowls."

Sure enough, sitting hidden inside one of the cheap white bowls I remember buying at the second-hand store is a steaming mug full of coffee. I relish the warmth radiating into my hands.

"You're amazing," I say, opening the fridge for milk to add to the mug.

"Dylan said if I didn't save you some, that he'd personally start a fight, and I didn't think anyone would look there" she shrugged. "Plus, I figured that beating up Paige's brother probably wouldn't win me any points in the girlfriend department."

"This is probably true," I agree and take a sip. The heat of the drink radiates through my whole body. I fall into a chair across from her, and we fall rapidly back into the pattern of our silent game. Alex clears her throat, and it makes me raise my eyes away from the mug in my hands.

"So, uh , the fashion twins are in your room playing dress up Barbie or something huh?" She says, trying to fuel a conversation and break the quiet.

"I don't exactly know what Dolce and Gabbana are doing in there, but I figure they're the right ones to let pick out my clothes," I resign. She nods, catching my drift.

"Yeah, be careful though, Nash. It could scar you for life," she warned jokingly. "I told Paige that I liked this one pink shirt she had, and I even meant I liked it on _her._" I choke back a small chuckle, knowing where this story is headed.

"But next thing I know we're at the mall and she's making me try on pink _everything_ from these companies whose names I can't even begin to pronounce. I was lucky to come out of it with only three new articles of pink clothing, and any money left in my bank account."

"Yet you still look so good in pink," Paige finished, with amusement in her voice, from where she stood in the doorway. Marco ducked past her and started bustling around to make himself a bowl of cereal. "Better grab a shower now or you'll make us all late Alex."

In that instant, I recall what it is we would be late for, and it puts a damper on that short-lived almost good mood I'd found myself drifting towards. Alex flashes a glance at the clock, and books it out of the kitchen. Marco falls into her chair.

"Hey Ell, I heard you cursing your wardrobe earlier," He says between bites of his breakfast. "So me and Paige took the liberty and picked out something for you if you wanted it."

"Right," Paige pipes up, walking in to join the conversation properly. "No pressure though, hun. If you had something else in mind, it's totally ok."

"Yeah, we kind of lunged at the chance," Marco half laughs. "It was fun."

It shouldn't have been fun. As much as I know that anything to do with clothes is absolutely riveting for Marco, this should never have been fun for him.

I mumble some sort of response, and look at the clock. We have to be at the funeral home at nine-thirty. I have roughly forty-five minutes to get myself ready to go, and even though I know I could do it in ten, I decided now is the perfect time to make my exit.

"I'm gonna go, y'know," I say, standing from my chair and bringing the mug of coffee with me.

"Ok hun," Paige says, managing a hopeful smile. Marco nods with his mouthful of cereal, and I duck out as gracefully as I can, trying not to draw any extra attention to myself.

I don't want them to see me crying.

Tears flood my face, and trail down my cheeks as I dress myself in the clothes my friends have picked out. The outfit is not too far outside my taste. It's a quietly dignified button down black blouse I can vaguely remember buying years ago, and a familiar black skirt. Someone, presumably Paige, has left a baby pink bracelet laid out on my bed to go with my outfit, but I can't bring myself to put it on. It makes me feel cheap, like a user.

It's not her fault; she doesn't know that I am a murderer.

I don't look like old, as I would assume my mother will look. The clothes actually make me feel younger. I feel like I'm twelve years old again, watching my life unravel, day after day after day. I feel like the child I was, watching my mother drink herself half to death, and feeling like it was my fault for not stopping her.

I haven't seen my mom in nearly two months; not since right after Annie was born. I remember that visit all to clearly. She met her granddaughter while smashed drunk. She'd nearly dropped my barely a week old daughter, and sent me home with money to buy her more liquor. That was a promise I made, but did not keep.

Ever since then, she's said over and over again that she's so sorry, and she's gotten better, but she's been saying that my whole life, and I don't necessarily believe her anymore.

Needless to say, I am not really looking forward to seeing her today. I know Marco will have told her about everything, and I know that she will probably show up for the funeral. If she's not too far gone, she will be there, and it will make it all the more awkward and uncomfortable.

Once I am dressed, and ready enough to leave the house, I lay down in my bed, wishing I had gotten some sleep. I feel like I am going to need it today. I feel like today will be the kind of day that drains me dry, but I have nothing left to give.

I wish my dad was here, and that he could hold me in his arms like when I was little. When my mom would get herself trashed, he'd tuck her into bed, then watch TV with me, his arm wrapped over my shoulders. He was my only real protector, but now he's far away, by his own choice.

"Ell?"

My eyes snap open, and once again, I have no recollection of ever letting them shut. Alex is standing in the doorway, dressed all in black, and obviously ready to go.

"It's time to go," she says. I nod and sit up, feeling my head swim as I do.

"Hey Alex?" I her myself ask groggily. I suddenly realize that not only do I feel like I need sleep, I sound like it too. Hell, I probably even look like the mess I feel.

"Yeah Nash?" She replies, politely ignoring my pitiful tone of voice. For a split second I almost tell her how much this hurts. For a moment I almost spill my stupid aching guts and tell her how responsible I am for everything.

But I can't bring myself to do it.

I don't want her to realize that I am really am the failure of a mother that I imagine myself to be. I don't want to lose one of the only friends I have left. Instead, I pick that baby pink bracelet up and hold it out to her.

"Would you give this back to Paige?"

XXXXXX


	5. Chapter 5

Whooooo, tough tough tough chapter to write.

Hopefully it worked. Drop me a review and let me know.

Enjoy.

XXXXXX

My mother is sobbing, and it's probably the most unnerving thing about this whole service.

Yeah, practically everyone I know is here, and yeah, I want more than anything screaming at them to leave because this all feels so wrong, but the simple fact that my mother is crying her eyes out for a baby she'd met once is so uncomfortable, I can hardly focus on anything the priest is saying.

Instead, I find my eyes drifting around the room.

My mom is on one side of me, and Marco's on the other. Marco's sitting quiet, solemnly, trying not to look disturbed by my mother's loud and dramatic outburst. Dylan's on his right, doing practically the same.

Paige is between her brother and Alex, with surprising tears trailing quietly down her face, and Alex has her famously predictable game face on. She is a brick wall, cautiously showing nothing at all on her face.

On the other side of the room, in the row of chairs across from ours, Jimmy and Ash are all the way against the wall, looking appropriately sad, and whispering to each other once in a while. Most of the room is a blur of similar faces holding identical expressions of sorrow on their faces. It's like they were all painted the same way.

Somewhere in the relative middle of the small crowd though, sits none other than Sean Cameron, and his little blonde girlfriend Emma. She won't take a second to unglue her big fat murmuring mouth from his ear, and he looks annoyed by her. Every so often I catch his eyes turning up to look at me, and I find myself carefully engrossed with the stained glass windows around us.

Out of the corner of my eye, he looks sad, and I can't help but think that he should feel bad. I thought he was going to be there with me forever, but all he did was exactly what everybody else does, leave.

When he finally did come back, he didn't come back to me, and he never explained himself. It doesn't matter how long ago it was, I still think I deserve an apology, or at least an explanation. That was something that's pretty hard to forgive, and even harder to forget. But life is just full of disappointment.

And Sean is just another one of those disappointments.

Without any warning, my mother is standing up and moving towards the tiny coffin. I grab at her arm to pull her back and save her the embarrassment, but then I notice Marco stand behind me. Apparently everyone here, is on their feet, save for me.

"Ell, it's time to go," Marco whispers in my ear, and suddenly I feel like a total idiot.

I guess, somewhere during the time I stopped paying attention, we were given directions to leave the church. It sort of draws attention to my waste-case status. What kind of person zones out at their own baby's funeral?

We leave, almost in single file, to the front of the room, and out of the building, and I find it especially hard to look at that little wooden coffin. The whole situation screams "this is not right!" They shouldn't have to make coffins that small.

My mother insists that we wait outside the door for everyone to say what they want to say to me, but somehow I find the words to tell her no. It all would have been too uncomfortable for me. I'd assume it would have been a bunch of different "I'm so sorrys" from people I knew or know. I'd get a lot of looks that I would rather not have been given

That is not the sort of awkward and warm reception I deserve.

Marco and Paige, being the social people that they are, have apparently arranged for a wake of some sorts in another part of this huge place. So instead of standing around outside, I decided to go find this other building.

It's nice and quiet, as no one else has made their way over here yet. There are a bunch of round table set up, so I plant myself down at a table in the corner, far, far away from the smell of food.

The need for me to eat has evidently died too.

"You beat me here."

It's Paige. Even if she hadn't spoken, I'd have known by the clack of her heels on the tile.

"How are you holding up, hun?"

All I can do is shrug. What could I have said? Should I have shown her the inside of my useless arm? Because we don't have that kind of relationship. I can't talk to her.

And honestly, it's probably no secret that I'm not holding up at all. I am falling down; crumbling apart and trying to pretend like it's all not happening. Paige sits down across from me and just stares intently at me, but my eyes don't budge from the laminate covered table. My eyes will stab me in the back and spill my guts; they always have.

"God Ellie, I'm really worr-"

She doesn't finish, because my name cuts across the room with a loud, hollow echo, and it shocks her away from her thoughts. I have to admit, Ashley sure does know how to interrupt at the perfect time.

"Ellie we've been looking all over for you," Ashley sighs, sounding relieved. Jimmy is wheeling along beside her as the two of them approach my table.

"How are you?" Ashley says, enveloping me in a bear hug. When she pulls away, she looks at me with heavy circles on her eyes.

"You look tired," I comment. She shrugs.

"Jimmy and I barely made it here. We just got off the plane," Ashley explains. I see her eying me with concern. It's that same kind of concern she used to show with Craig. That, "I'm afraid you might go crazy and hurt yourself" kind of concern.

Jimmy takes my hand into both of his and smiles gently before his face falls solemn.

"I am so sorry," he says. "If you ever need anything, we are here." It sound genuine, and sticks painfully in my hollow chest. He continues speaking and I have to distract myself.

Over his shoulder, I see more and more people trickling in. Blankly, I recall that Ashley and Jimmy were supposed to spend three weeks in NYC for some music thing of Ash's. I can't believe that I was worth enough to come home for.

I detach myself from the conversation as soon as possible, uncomfortable around my own friends. When I finally sit back down at my empty table, I notice my mother in the corner, telling her sob story, and it hurts.

So I put my head down, and I think I fell asleep, but I'm not quite sure.

"Ellie."

There's a tap on my shoulder, that makes me jump, groggy and disoriented, up and away from the table.

And there he is. Mr. Walk-Away-Joe.

Sean Cameron, in the flesh.

He looks good, and for half a second, I miss him. He's managed to pry away from Emma. Then it all returns to me: all of our history.

I just want to throttle him.

When I'm on my feet, I see Alex behind him, trying to march towards us with a look of irritated confusion, and Paige holding her back. She saw what it did to me when he left. That had seemed to kill any good feelings she'd had left for him.

"Ellie, I know things never ended right between us," he sighs, scratching at his head. "And I know I hurt you, so I hope you're not mad I'm here.

Suddenly, I hope Paige can keep Alex back, because I'm getting the apology I've waited for.

"I'm not mad," I sigh, avoiding his eyes. Those eyes used to be able to read me like no other, and I don't know how good he can figure me out anymore, but I'm not willing to take the chance. "I'm just confused about why you're here."

"Jay told me. And I just wanted to let you know that I am always here for you. Just because we didn't work doesn't mean I want to see you hurting like this; like you are right now," he explains as he crossed one arm uncomfortably over his chest. His glance darts to his left, and I see Emma standing, waiting, by the door.

"Better let you go," I say lamely. He smiles an awkward smile, and stands there, silent for a second, before moving in and giving me a quick strange hug.

"I'm sorry Ell," he says lowly. "For everything."

Then he leaves again, and I'm left there, hoping I don't have to explain myself, because I don't think I can.

Luckily, for the first time in my life, my mother saves the day

I think every pair of eyes in the room was on her as she squealed into her cell phone, sounding like she was already halfway on her way to sloshed. We all watched her practically spring across the room towards me, her phone stretched out in front of her like the Olympic torch.

"It's your father," she says, practically bowling me over. "He's coming home."

There is absolutely no air in my lungs.

After what feels like forever, stuck in a mix of shock and confusion, and eventually embarrassment, I take the phone. I can feel everybody's eyes on me, and it burns. Last time I talked to my father, it was to tell him that I was pregnant. I hadn't been able to get through to him when Annie was born. I'd had to send him an email. He wanted to be there, but couldn't get leave.

"Eleanor?" The line crackles and I jam a finger into my ear, trying to hear better. When I try to answer him though, my voice gets stuck; a lump halfway up my throat. I can't stand the eyes, on me, so I walk away, to the outside.

"Ellie honey?"

Now the words are jammed behind my teeth, but I still can't choke anything out.

"God damn phone…" he mutters, angry. "Dropped the god damn call." I'm afraid he's going to hang up.

"I'm here," I finally choke out. He sighs in what sounds like relief.

"I thought the call dropped," he says. His voice sounds so far away, like he's talking ten feet away from the phone. My ears strain to hear him.

"No," I answer. "I just couldn't talk."

"Oh," he mumbles. "I'm coming home. I got leave because of…" He trails off. His voice suddenly sounded older, and sadder.

"You still there Ellie?"

"Yeah, yeah Dad," I say, straining to keep my voice in check. "I'm here."

"Ok honey," he sighs. "I just…God, I don't know what to even say to you Ellie."

"I know," I sigh. Believe me, I know better than anybody how sad, how wrong, and how fucking painful this all is.

"You shouldn't have to know," he tells me. After a long, long pause, he continues. "I'm going to have to get off the phone, but I want you to know that I love you, and I'll be there soon, within the week."

"Ok, Dad," I say, my voice falling even more apart. Tears are building in the corners of my eyes, but I manage to hold them back. "Love you too."

"I wish I was with you right now," he said. "But as least I'll be there soon." God he sounds so sad, and even that hurts. It hurts that he cares that much.

"Ok Dad." I barely got the words out, and the line is even more crackly, so I don't know if heard me before he was cut off.

As I stare silently at the phone in my hands, seeing that words "call lost" blink across the little screen, I notice for the first time that I am not alone outside.

Jay Hogart, of all people, is in a suit and tie sitting on the ground probably fifteen or twenty feet from me, sipping idly from a flask of God-knows-what.

"Why are you sitting on the ground?" I ask stupidly. He glances up at me, takes a long sip, and answers.

"Didn't feel like standing."

That answer is good enough for me, and he doesn't say anything more, so I don't feel the pressing need to go back inside. Both of us sit in silence on the ground, leaning up against the wall, and staring out at the green of the cemetery in front of us.

"You want some?" Jay asks, holding the flask out to me. I shake my head no, and he shrugs and downs the rest.

"Not like I've got anywhere to go," he comments blankly.

"Don't you have to drive home?" I ask, raising an eyebrow to the thought of Jay driving drunk. He could kill somebody.

Just like me.

"Naw, Alex took my car. She and Blondie skipped out of here right 'bout ten minutes before you came out," he says. "Alex was pretty convincing, what with threatening to kick my ass in her high heels. But my bet is, she just couldn't handle it in there."

I have nothing to say to that. I'm thinking it must have taken a lot to drag Paige away from this whole thing that she organized.

"I don't blame her," Jay continues. "Nobody likes a fucking funeral, am I right?" I shake my head. I don't want to waste the energy on words. They aren't enough right now.

"My condolences Nash," he says looking away from the green grass in front of us, and staring directly into my face. "This ain't right, and you don't deserve it. Nobody does."

And that's when I finally cry, because I'm not so sure if he was right. Maybe I've finally gotten what was meant for me.


End file.
